


An Unlikely Hero

by RavenclawRiddles



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: I Do, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Sherlock is a Damsel in Distress, Sickfic, do we count injuries as being sick?, johnlock au, sick lock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-26
Updated: 2017-11-26
Packaged: 2019-02-07 04:38:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12833442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RavenclawRiddles/pseuds/RavenclawRiddles
Summary: John Watson is at the beach with his girlfriend when people start sounding the alarm and running to safety. There's been a shark attack, and against all logic, John decides dive headfirst into danger to save the victim—none other than Sherlock Holmes. Could this unlikely heroic act mark the start of something new?





	An Unlikely Hero

**Author's Note:**

> I was watching 72 Dangerous Animals: Australia on Netflix and when they were talking about bull sharks, a survivor told his story. He was on his way out, trying to get back to shore after a nasty attack, and while everyone else was scrambling to safety, some guy swam over to him and saved his life. Of course my mind went straight to Johnlock. Apologies if I got anything wrong from a medical standpoint or if, god forbid, any of my readers has sustained an attack.

John wasn’t much for the beach. However, Sarah insisted that a day out would do him good, and frankly he was beginning to like her quite a lot. What was more, she had a hidden talent for surfing and claimed that a surfing lesson would be fun and not at all humiliating. So it was that he ended up attempting to balance on a flimsy surfboard and pointedly ignoring all of the fit young men in clingy boardshorts and wetsuits showing off their surfing prowess for bikini-clad women on the shore.

John was just about to suggest they throw in the towel and go grab some lunch when he heard a scream. Glancing up, he saw several people paddling desperately back towards shore.

“What—” he started, when the cry came loud and clear:

_ “Shark!” _

“Has someone got bitten?” John asked urgently, which was probably not the response he should have when an entire beach was fleeing from a 500-pound bull shark.

“John, come on!” Sarah yelled above the chaos, grabbing his arm.

In an act of pure stupidity, John shook her off, flattened himself to the surfboard, and started paddling for dear life.

Towards the shark.

Apparently they hadn’t been dating long enough for Sarah’s altruistic side to kick in, because after a half-hearted attempt to yank him unceremoniously back towards shore by the ankle she joined the panicked masses. John rapidly passed the surfers going the opposite direction until he was alone in the middle of the ocean. Blood was slowly seeping into the water around him, a metallic scent mingled with salt that sent adrenaline coursing through his veins.

Paddling a little more slowly and terrified he might miss the victim, John’s eyes finally fell on a surfer, bleeding badly and clutching a battered surfboard with two large chunks missing. The young man was grey-faced from shock and blood loss, his eyes like golf balls in his head from pure terror, and his entire upper thigh was a mess. Without thinking twice, John lunged, grabbed the victim tightly around the waist, and began swimming madly towards the shore. 

“A-are you stupid?” the man said unexpectedly, teeth chattering and skin clammy against John’s arms.

“Oh, shut up,” John snapped.

It seemed simultaneously a few seconds and several hours before they reached land. Medics and lifeguards were waiting with tourniquet bandages and unloaded the victim onto a stretcher immediately, disregarding John.

Exhausted, John relinquished his grip on the man and stepped back. Sarah raced over to him, shook him by the arms and exclaimed something about him being an idiot. A few other beachgoers wrinkled up their noses at the gory mess and congratulated John on his unthinking act of bravery before packing up for the day. Then a ginger-haired middle-aged man approached. He brushed past John to say crisply to the medics, “He’s my brother.”

“Sod off,” the victim said weakly from the stretcher.

“Sherlock Holmes,” the man continued. “If you would be so considerate as to—”

“Go eat a slice of cake, Mycroft,” Sherlock uttered from the ground. John raised an eyebrow.

“Oh, Sherlock. Always a pleasure,” Mycroft replied dryly. “Shall I tell Mummy why you were at the beach in the first place?”

Sherlock looked cross, which was comical and ridiculous considering that he had just undergone a traumatic event and almost died. (Months later, John would realize that this seemingly superhuman recovery time was nothing.)

“He’s in shock,” a medic interrupted.

“I’m in shock,” Sherlock echoed, somehow very smugly despite the fact that  _ he had almost died  _ and was certainly not out of the woods yet.

Mycroft was persistent. “We will be speaking soon—”

“I’m injured, look, I’ve got a tourniquet,” and Sherlock motioned to his bandaged leg as the medics lifted him up and prepared to move him into a helicopter.

“You know you very nearly severed your femoral artery,” Mycroft said loudly above the sound of the blades as they started whirring. “It would befit you to be rather less rash in the future. You are in for weeks of rehab, you’ve lost a great muscle mass—”

John was starting to get irritated by Mycroft’s nosiness. Sherlock was a grown man, for god’s sake. (Months later, John would also realize that Mycroft’s nosiness had been perfectly justified, and that “grown man” had a rather loose definition when it came to Sherlock.) “That’s enough,” John said, stepping closer.

To his surprise, just as medics were done securing him to the stretcher, Sherlock reached out a slender hand and squeezed John’s fingers. “Thank you,” he said simply. 

The wounded man was very good-looking, younger than John could remember being, and something touched him about it. Even in his rather pale and weak state, Sherlock’s eyes were startlingly green, black curls matted with sea water and blood. John resisted the very doctorly urge to reach over and push them out of Sherlock’s face. It was a moment that lasted less than a second, but after the helicopter had risen up and faded into the horizon, John found himself unable to shake Sherlock from his mind. There was an untamed energy to Sherlock that shouldn’t be appealing to someone who tried to  _ avoid _ danger at all cost like he did.

“John!” Sarah said sharply.

John jumped. Christ, how long had he been standing there, mulling over Sherlock’s fate in his head? “Sorry, sorry. Must be, er... bit of shock, myself,” he said.

Sarah reached over and took his hand. “You’d probably like a shower,” she suggested. It was true that swimming around in a pool of bloody water in a moment of sheer panic did not exactly produce the most attractive aesthetic. (Months later, John would discover that this was true to most people, but Sherlock Holmes was a different case entirely.)

“Yeah, great,” he said, and followed her back up the steps to the parking lot.

“You did a good thing,” Sarah said softly once they reached the car.

Why was he so bloody distracted? John blinked a few times, cleared his throat, and focused determinedly on Sarah. Sarah, who he really did like. “Thank you,” he said.

“You’re a good man,” Sarah said, and kissed him. 

They’d kissed before, of course, but John hadn’t felt so out of it then. Things had in fact progressed quite nicely from there. Now, he could not be less interested. It was  _ definitely _ the exhaustion and shock of what he had done and witnessed. That was all. 

“You can shower back at my place, if you want,” Sarah offered as she got into the car.

“Yeah, great,” John repeated. “Sorry,” he added, gingerly trying to avoid getting too much sand and otherwise on Sarah’s nice car seats. “This probably isn't too pleasant for the leather.”

“Don’t worry about it,” she said kindly. Sarah really was a lovely girl. Pretty, patient, and understanding. 

Why was John trying to justify this to himself again? He needed a lie-down. Yes, he definitely did. (Months later, John would realize that even lie-downs were insufficient when it came to shaking off Sherlock’s magnetic pull.)

“You know, you’re a hero,” Sarah piped up, glancing over at John.

“Yeah,” he said unthinkingly. Then, in alarm, “No, not... not hero. Not that.”

“Well, I think you are,” she said staunchly. 

“An unlikely one, then,” John stated after a pause.

“Why do you say that?”

John shrugged. “It’s not many out-of-shape middle-aged men who can’t surf that are stupid enough to risk getting attacked by a shark to save a stranger. I’m not really the ‘heroic’ type, I suppose. I’m rather short,” he added, mustering a small smile.

“Fine, then you’re an unlikely hero,” Sarah said fondly.

John nodded, ready to fall asleep. His stamina certainly was not what it used to be. “Unlikely hero it is, then,” he replied, letting his eyes drift shut and leaning back against the headrest.

Sherlock Holmes’s unlikely hero. John could live with that.

**Author's Note:**

> If you haven't, feel free to check out my other fic, We Call It All Home! I've been so swamped with school that I haven't been able to update, but I will over winter break and hopefully once in the next month as well. You can also read Red Solo Cups, which has a pending sequel.


End file.
